


Day 4: Cycles

by MindfulWrath



Series: The Week of Terrible Fiction [4]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Animal Death, Burns, Dismemberment, Eye Trauma, Gen, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 18:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6339787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cast into the End, Lying struggles to maintain their sense of self, and--somewhat less importantly--to survive.</p>
<p>This is canon for the Rise and Fall 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 4: Cycles

They lived in fear.

It was the only constant left to them, the one thing they could remain certain of. Nearly everything else had been lost to them, drunk from their skull by the thirsty void, sip by sip and day by day. All it had left them with was their name and their fear and a blurry recollection of a world in color.

Here, all was gray and black. The dust had covered their skin, their hair, their clothes, turning them the same pallid color as the crumbling earth. The sky was dark and starless, and time passed irregularly. Sometimes, they would see flickering purple stars in the distance, always in pairs, always in motion. When they did, they would wriggle underneath the nearest rock and press their hand over their mouth and _pray_ that they hadn't been seen.

Their name was Lying, and they lived in fear.

They had fallen from the sky one day; of that, they were certain. They had plummeted into the brittle ground and kicked up a plume of gray dust, leaving them coughing and disoriented. They had not been frightened then, simply annoyed, and they had hunted through the platy gravel and the bone-dry dust until they had found the little bundle of wicker dolls, each constructed in their own image.

Miles upon miles of cracked ground had passed beneath their bare and claw-ended feet, miles and miles of blank and empty sky had observed their progress with blind disinterest. They had found a cave, eventually, and holed up inside.

"I'm sure he thinks he's very clever," they'd said to themselves, picking splinters of rock out of their feet. "Trying to frighten _me._ Hah! What a precious little child."

Time had passed, and their tongue had begun to stick to the roof of their mouth, their throat to itch with dry dust. They had no water, no food, nothing but their bundle of poppets and their sheltered cave. This hadn't disturbed them at the time—every world had always welcomed them, sooner or later, and they had survived in places more inhospitable.

They had torn some scraps of cloth from their tunic and bundled them around their feet, and they had started walking.

The world was bland and dead; each rise of jagged rock blended into the next, each mile of parched earth was indistinguishable from the last. The air was cold and utterly still, and the silence was so complete that it set their ears to ringing. Even the crunching of the platy stone under their feet was not enough to drive it back, and the further they walked, the quieter it became, until they could scarcely hear it amongst the ringing silence. The noise was persistent, growing ever louder and higher as the silence wormed its way in. They began to dig at their ears with their knuckles, trying to scoop out the bothersome noise, but it would not go. It swallowed the sound of their footsteps, the sound of their breathing, the sound of their heart in their chest and the blood in their veins.

Dust coated them, inside and out. It was all over their skin, caking the inside of their mouth and throat and lungs, thick and heavy in their nose. Breathing was becoming difficult, and so they tore off another scrap of tunic and tied it around their face. They could not hear the cloth rip, not through the incessant and terrible ringing. They dug a clawed fingertip into their ear, barely flinching at the pain. The claw came out tipped in blood, but the ringing had subsided.

Half a mile of walking later, it was back, and louder than ever. They continued to scratch at their ears, to claw at the sound, until blood was running down their jaw and onto their neck, soaking their makeshift mask, growing cloudy with dust as it clotted on their skin. Even then, the ringing did not stop, although the rest of the world had fallen into deafened silence.

They walked, there was no telling how long. They grew dizzy and weak, their joints sore and their stomach painfully shriveled, until their legs would not carry them any further and they sank down against a jagged outcrop of gray rock, trying to wipe the dust from their eyes.

There they had withered and died, their body ruined by thirst, their mind a gray and dusty haze.

* * *

 

Lying had awoken in their little cave, lying next to the bundle of poppets, now smaller by one. They had grinned to themselves, their heart pounding.

"Maybe not the best idea I've ever had," they'd remarked to themselves. "But if that's the best our little pet can do, he's got a lot to learn about what makes a proper hell."

From then on, every thought they'd had was spoken aloud, to drive back the silence. It had been a more amenable long-term solution than piercing their own eardrums again, and ever so much less messy.

They had not ventured out again right away. First they'd tied their poppets to their belt, ensuring they would not lose their progress again just because their body had inconveniently chosen to die. They'd fitted themselves with a better mask, more apt to keep the dust out of their lungs. They'd found a likely-looking shard of rock and tucked that into their belt, too, in case the need for blood should arise. They'd curled into a corner and slept fitfully, their dreams haunted by, if not nightmares, then disconcerting dreams.

Something with wings was hunting them, and it had learned the smell of their blood.

* * *

 

The next time they'd ventured out had been the first time they'd seen the stars. They had already been woozy, delirious with thirst, likely only a few hours from keeling over again. On the distant horizon they had seen a gentle swarm of purple sparks, scarcely indistinguishable from the spots drifting in front of their own eyes.

But the stars had drawn closer, moving in a rippling, scattered mass, and a grating buzz had impinged upon the silence, and before Lying knew what was happening they were upon them.

There were dozens of them, tall black shapes with brilliant stars for eyes, their mouths gaping wide and buzzing. They surrounded Lying, all angles and sparks and grasping fingers, and everywhere they'd touched had _burned._

Lying had cried out sharply—and hadn't they known the names of these things? Hadn't they once described them with a few simple syllables?—and had lashed out with their makeshift blade, though their limbs were weak and their fingers clumsy.

One of the creatures had screamed, and the others had taken up the cry, throwing their heads back and _howling_ with unnatural voices. Lying had pushed their way through the crowd, burning their hands on the creatures' spindly limbs, and had run for their life.

They had not run in a very long time, but something about that howl had gotten into the back of their head. It had found the hollow space where fear used to live and it had taken root and _grown._

It wasn't long before their legs had given out, leaving them panting and useless. They'd crawled underneath a crumbling overhang and tried to catch their breath, tried to gain some focus. Their hand had strayed to their belt, blistered fingers feeling for the poppets.

And they had found them gone.

The thing like fear jabbed splintered branches into their brain, choked their heart with strangling roots. They had scrabbled in the dust like a coward, frantic and bleary, so lost in the terror of the moment that they had forgotten who they were supposed to be.

From overhead, there was the sound of creaking wings.

Lying had frozen, had clapped a hand over their mouth and trembled like a rabbit in its warren, sucking in the dusty air through their nose while desperately trying to remain silent. Their blood shivered, their bones brittled, their pulse sung in their ears like the whine of a saw. They'd felt a terrible wind sweep into their alcove, carrying the stench of burning flesh, and their skin had prickled with the chill of a monstrous attention.

Then it had moved on, and Lying had curled up in the dust and waited to die again.

* * *

 

Lying had woken in an empty plain, clearer of mind and sounder of body. The spindly black creatures were milling about in droves, square heads bowed, fingers clutching at the air. Lying had gotten up and dusted themselves off, hunting about for the rest of the poppets. They recalled, dimly, that looking at the creatures was unwise; certainly they would remember what the things were called soon enough.

Minutes had passed with no sign of the poppets, and Lying grew agitated. It was nothing so base as fear, but they were made distinctly uncomfortable by the absence of their little dolls. One of the spindly creatures had brushed against them, and they'd whirled on it with a snarl. They had clawed its face, rending the delicate flesh like paper. The thing had cried out, and Lying had fallen upon it with vicious abandon, bearing it to the ground, tearing at its face and throat with claws and teeth, reveling in the way its bloodless body tore. They'd ripped one of its eyes from its socket, spraying purple sparks across the ground like glitter. Their skin had burned wherever they touched it, blistering their fingers and their lips, but there was such glory in the vital destruction they wrought upon the thing that they scarcely noticed.

With a final, grating wail, the thing had died, and Lying fell to consuming its flesh, hunched over the corpse like a ragged vulture. It was parchingly dry and tasted of salt, like a rotten silk scarf that had washed up on the shore of a temperate ocean—but it eased some of the gnawing pain in their stomach, and they noted its utility for later.

They'd kept their ears and eyes open, anticipating retribution from the other creatures, but none came. They ate their fill of their prey and left the rest to rot, wiping strings of black flesh from their mouth and picking them from between their pointed teeth. They were still terribly thirsty—perhaps more so after their meal—but their head was clear and their limbs were strong, and they had set out with all senses sharp in search of their poppets.

* * *

 

They had been half-dead when the monster first found them. They had crawled underneath an outcrop, nursing their burns and their bloodied feet, licking their claws and picking the flesh from their teeth. There had come a sudden wind, swift and bitterly cold. It had swept clean through them to their bones, chilling their blood in their veins. They had turned their eyes to the sky, apprehensive.

They had not seen it, at first, black against the starless sky. They had heard the creaking of wings, heavy in the silent air, and they had fought against the fear that was choking out the back of their mind. They were _Lying._ They were the Witch in the Woods. Fear had no power over them. They _were_ fear.

And then the monster had wheeled in the sky and fixed them with a huge, violet eye, and the fear had swelled to terrible proportions without regard for their reputation.

They fought it back down, struggling to their feet, forcing a smile onto their face. The monster had dived from the sky, swooping down upon them. It had snatched them in its claws before they could dodge—it was smaller and nearer than they had thought, and perspective was difficult amidst the darkness and the featureless landscape—and its touch had burned just like the slender creatures, and one of its terrible claws had pierced their abdomen and spilled their blood. Snarling, they had raked it with their own claws, and it had dropped them, thirty meters onto hard stone. They felt something in their shoulder snap, and the pain further clouded their thoughts, delayed their reactions. The monster had descended upon them again, alighting on the ground before them in a beating of black wings, its eyes burning like twin stars.

It had opened its gaping maw, studded with jagged obsidian teeth, lit with purple fire that swelled in its throat, and spoken in a voice that turned Lying's very core to water.

_"Run,"_ it had growled.

"Oh, Rythian," Lying had gasped, struggling to get upright with their broken shoulder and their gaping abdominal wound. "I'm flatt—"

The thing's head had snaked out, quick as lightning, and snapped their arm between its cruel jaws. They had screamed, and it had thrashed them like a dog would thrash a pheasant, until their arm tore from its socket in a sudden spray of brilliant red blood. They had kept on screaming, writhing on the ground in agony while their blood painted the gray ground red.

The monster had swallowed down their arm whole. It raked its claws across the ground by their head, snapped at their heels.

_"Run,"_ it commanded again.

In tears, head spinning and heart pounding, Lying had tried to run. They had stumbled and staggered and crawled, and the monster had followed them, ripping pieces of their flesh from their body, gouging scratches in their remaining limbs right down to the bone.

It had devoured them, piece by piece, over the course of an entire, agonizing hour.

When they had woken again, scattered somewhere else in the bleak gray landscape, they had scarcely managed to gather their wits before they had heard the creaking of the monstrous wings again.

That time, they had run.

* * *

 

And now they lived in fear.

They had lost track of how many times they had died, bitten and mangled and _toyed_ with, chased until their feet bled and their lungs burned, harried like a rat by a terrier. They could recall nothing of where they had come from, save for snatches of vibrant color that stung the eyes of their dreams; they could recall nothing of themselves but their name.

_Lying,_ they repeated to themselves, huddled in quaking terror as the monster circled overhead, its unblinking eyes roving over the landscape, its wings creaking in the silent air. _Your name is Lying. Please don't forget. Please don't forget._

There was a terrible, thunderous crash, and the stone above their head shivered and cracked, shedding sharp flakes onto their head. There was a terrible roar that shook their bones, that stopped their heart cold. They screamed, scrambling back into a corner and throwing their hands over their head, stupid with fear. Claws tore at the rock overhead with a piercing squeal, a noise that made Lying's teeth ache, and then the monster was tearing through the shelter, ripping away huge chunks of febrile rock. A long black snout was rammed into the hole, and purple flame spat from between the obsidian teeth. Lying screamed again as their flesh charred, and they scrambled for the exit, blind with pain.

They staggered out into the open air and fell, cutting their knees upon the ragged ground. They hauled themselves upright, weeping, their skin blistered, their hair burned down to the scalp, and they began to run, limping on bloodied feet.

The monster fell upon them, claws-first. It bore them to the ground, then snatched their leg in its teeth, severing the delicate tendons. It flung them into the air and then leapt to catch them, soaking its scaly muzzle with their blood. They thrashed and screamed and clawed, all to no avail. Again, the monster threw them into the air, but instead of catching them, it swatted them with a massive paw, crunching their bones and sending them skipping and bouncing across the landscape. Needles of rock pierced their flesh as they rolled, dust coated their bleeding body, but they struggled to get upright anyway, to run, to flee, to survive just a few moments longer.

There was a creaking of wings, and the monster fell upon them yet again, slamming them to the ground and shattering their spine. Their legs went numb and useless, pain riddled their broken body, but still they tried to crawl away, dragging themselves with mangled fingers through the dust.

A swipe of razor claws rent their arm open, exposing the splintered bone underneath. They cried out, as blood poured from the wound, as severed ligaments trailed the ground in grotesque strings. The monster flipped them over and ripped their belly open, buried its muzzle in their gut and wolfed down their insides, filling them with pain and pain and _pain. . . ._

* * *

 

They woke suddenly into a world of sweltering heat, colors so bright they made their head ache. The air was almost too wet to breathe, and the light was so brilliant that it made their eyes water. They crawled out of the light, finding somewhere dark, somewhere cool. They wriggled down into the darkness, taking shelter from the light and the heat. They could not get away from the water, but they found, as they licked the moisture from the walls with instinctive desperation, that they didn't want to. They were frantic, dizzy, overwhelmed. They were lost. They were frightened. They were . . . they were. . . .

They were Lying. Yes, certainly they were Lying. That much they could recall. And as the fear began to subside, and the universe settled around them, they slowly felt themselves calming. Here there was water, and they could hear small things scrabbling in the darkness, things small enough to eat. Here there were no creaking wings, no purple fire, no distant swarms of terrible stars.

They plucked something small and scaly from the wall and bit its head off. Its body continued to wriggle while they crunched its fragile bones between their teeth, its blood running over their lips. They devoured the rest of the creature, too, reveling in the bitter taste of it, so different from their accustomed fare of salt and rotting silk. Slowly, they began to put themselves together, one decision at a time.

They were Lying.

And they were never, _ever_ going to be frightened again.


End file.
